


Chaser

by nicky_writes



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gangsters, Alternate Universe - Mob, And cashes out as the boss's girlfriend, Bartender Reader, Boss/Employee Relationship, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Gangs, Mob Boss Din Djarin, Organized Crime, Reader starts out as a waitress, Reader-Insert, Upgrades to bartender, eventually
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:14:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24065656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nicky_writes/pseuds/nicky_writes
Summary: No one knows his name, and no one knows his face, but the man who leads one of the most powerful gangs in New York from behind an infamous mask is still feared throughout the city. You, on the other hand, are just a waitress at the club he owns, someone who’s only just barely dipped her toe into the treacherous water of New York’s underworld. But that doesn’t stop your boss from taking a liking to you, and if you weren’t so terrified of all that his attentions could mean for you, maybe you would notice that fear isn’t the only emotion your employer stirs up within you.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Reader, The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Reader
Comments: 81
Kudos: 291





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, guys! Welcome to my first ever Mando fic - I hope you brought popcorn. And lubricant. Because this fic is gonna get spicy later on. 
> 
> For real, though, I really love The Mandalorian; it's my favorite show of all time, and you know it HAS to be good to be Frasier. So I hope I do Din Djarin justice! Please let me know if you have any constructive criticism for me; I want to get better at writing his character, and feedback always helps! 
> 
> Thanks so much for checking out my story; I hope you enjoy!

You could feel the throbbing of a quick, staccato bassline in your chest; you always could while you were working. The Boss liked the keep the music loud, and for good reason. It was the same reason why smoking was not only permitted but actively encouraged – the thick smoke and thumping music made it all the more difficult to hear and to see what happened in the dark corners of Club Razor Crest. Here, there were only two rules – don’t start shit, and keep your mask on. As long as they followed those two basic principles, the Boss’s patrons were welcome to conduct whatever business they saw fit in the crushed velvet booths and intentionally shadowed halls of his underworld playground.

With the tips of your red, glossy fingernails, you adjusted your mask now, pulling the plastic away from your heated skin by just a centimeter or two. You could have groaned from how good it felt to have cool, fresh air rush in to caress your sweaty forehead; after a week of working at the club, you’d definitely learned _why_ anonymity was so important in a place like this, but you still dreaded putting the blasted thing on in the evenings before your shift.

Greta, one of the other girls who worked there, strutted past you, looking light as a feather as she waltzed around in her eight-inch heels with a tray of drinks balanced above her head. You, by contrast, knew that you had to look as clumsy as a newborn deer in your own stilettos; just like the mask, they were a mandatory part of your uniform that you still hadn’t gotten used to, and though Greta and the other girls had promised you that the constant pain in your feet would soon start to fade, your soles still ached painfully with every shift of your weight.

“Mask on,” your coworker whispered to you in passing. “Boss is here.”

You’d been just about to explain that you weren’t taking it off, that you’d just needed some air, but the words died on your lips when you heard the last part of her warning. Your spine straightened of its own accord, and the hand on your mask promptly fell down to hang by your waist. Scanning the space, you tried to make out the infamous man you’d heard so much about through the dim lighting and hazy air.

“Where?” you asked, but either she ignored you or just didn’t hear, because she kept on walking to her table without sparing you so much as another glance.

You gulped before stiffly making your way to the bar, slipping past the ‘Employees Only’ gate before gathering together the four glasses you’d need for your table’s order. You let your hands and body go on autopilot as you set about assembling their drinks; typically, the waitresses would just drop off their order slips to one of the bartenders and wait for them to make it, but you’d mentioned at your job interview that you had some bartending experience and didn’t mind helping out with the cocktail mixing.

From there, the head bartender, Quill, had sat at the bar and watched you make him an old fashioned right in the middle of your interview. With trembling hands, you’d done so, feeling the older man’s eyes on you all the while as he stroked his bushy white mustache. After one sip of it, he’d nodded his head, and you’d felt relief wash through you as he threw back the rest of the drink.

“You start on Monday,” was all he’d said.

Now, as you grabbed some triple sec from the top shelf, you caught a glimpse of him watching you out of the corner of your eye, and you turned to give him a smile. Quill had been working at Club Razor Crest for as long as anyone could remember, and he was the only person inside the building who didn’t wear a mask; evidently, him and the owner went way back. He was quiet – gruff, even – but for some reason you liked the grumpy older man. And, if you were correctly reading the gleam in his eyes as he looked at you from behind his thick, bushy white eyebrows, you thought that he’d taken a liking to you, too. Or, at least, to your old-fashioneds.

“How’s it going, Quill?” you asked, focusing once again on the long island iced tea you were making. “Busy night?”

You were expecting nothing more than a grunt in response; that was all most people got from him, and ever since he’d hired you, you hadn’t heard anything else, either. But instead, he opened his mouth to speak, only talking loud enough for you to just barely be able to hear him over the music.

“After you finish those drinks, leave ‘em here,” he instructed. “Boss just arrived with some of his friends, and he requested you to serve ‘em.”

You nearly dropped the bottle of rum in your hands, one that was worth more than an entire week’s worth of pay, and your hands scrambled to get a firmer grip on it. Shakily setting it down on the counter, you turned to Quill with wide eyes, your lips parted in shock.

“The Boss requested _me_ to serve them?” Your voice was so high-pitched that it cracked as you said ‘me’, and you cleared your throat before trying once again. “Why does he want _me_? I’ve never even met him before.”

At that, Quill let out a sigh and turned to you, pursing his lips together until they almost disappeared under his large, unkempt mustache.

“…He likes old-fashioneds,” he shrugged, the corner of his lips jumping up so quickly that you almost missed the half-smile he’d given you. _That_ would have been enough to perturb you for the rest of the evening; you hadn’t seen him smile at _anyone_ after an entire week of working there – not even customers. But, as it was, nothing could cool the anxiety welling up in you as you finished making the rest of your drinks.

“I wonder where he heard about them,” you remarked, and you thought you caught Quill glance at you sheepishly in your peripheral vision.

Your eyes flitted over the room, looking for his booth; someone had said something to you on your first day about the table he kept reserved for himself and his ‘guests’, but you’d forgotten its location completely after the whirlwind of your first day at this new, bizarre job.

After finishing the four drinks and setting them on a tray, you turned towards Quill to ask where the Boss would be sitting. But, an idea stirred in your mind, and on impulse you grabbed a small glass before scanning the selection of bourbons and whiskeys the bar had to offer. Biting your lip, you felt eyes on the back of your head as you perused the different brands, but after settling on a good blend of the two, you turned around to find no one looking at you. Quill was busy taking some drunk guy’s order, and the other patrons at the bar were too busy with their own drinks or conversations to pay you any mind.

With a sigh, you shook off the strange feeling and assembled the rest of what you’d need for an old fashioned, hands moving on autopilot as you heard your dad’s voice in your ear. _Make sure you only use enough bitters to saturate the sugar_ , you recalled him teaching you. _Between four and six dashes should do the trick unless someone requests something different. Mix it with the sugar until it forms a slurry, and always add the ice in large chunks so it doesn’t get too watered down. Never overmix it once you add the spirits, just a few stirs before putting in a strip of lemon_ and _orange peel._

Your fingers felt sticky as you snapped the citrus peels in half, spraying just a hint of their sweet oils overtop of the cocktail before rubbing them over the glass’s rim. After dropping them into the drink and mixing it one more time, you turned to see Quill watching you with one eyebrow raised.

“What? You said he likes old-fashioneds,” you shrugged. “Um… could you point me in the direction of his booth?”

Once more, he pursed his lips before pointing towards the far right corner of the room.

“It’s the only circular booth we have,” you heard him mutter as you walked away. “Can’t miss it.”

Making sure to thank him over your shoulder, you straightened your back and made your way through the main room of the club. There wasn’t any dancefloor, nor was there a DJ, but in the center of the space, there was a large, ornate fountain. Water no longer ran through it, but fairy lights had been wrapped around its tall structure, throwing shadows and low, scattered light around the entire room. Tables were centered around it, but typically only the low-ranking or occasional civilian patrons sat at them; the booths were almost always occupied by those who had a deal to make, those who had private (which almost always meant _dangerous_ ) matters to discuss, or those who were doing something that was, nine times out of ten, _incredibly_ illegal. You’d walked by tables covered in lines of white powder before, their occupants knowing better than to worry about someone seeing and stopping them.

So long as no fights broke out and everyone stayed anonymous, everyone kept to their own business, and the paycheck was too good for you to worry about the moral connotations of working in such a place. No one had so much as laid a finger on you, and no one would, not while you were under the employment of the infamous leader of the Mandalorians.

After rounding the other side of the fountain, you finally saw the booth Quill had been talking about. It was raised up on a small platform, just high enough to be able to see the rest of the club clearly. Its table was, indeed, in the shape of a circle, and a large booth wrapped around three quarters of its diameter. Seated at it were four men and one woman; three of the men and she were wearing masks similar to your own, but while yours only covered your forehead and the upper half of your nose, theirs descended down their cheeks to their jawline, covering the entirety of their face except for their mouths and chins.

As it was, you would have found them extremely intimidating, but now, you didn’t even spare them a second glance. Because your eyes were fixed firmly on the Boss, and you were certain that you could feel _his_ fixed onto _you_.

No one had told you that his mask covered his entire head, and as you stood there, in shock, you wondered why the _fuck_ no one had thought to warn you about it before. It looked as if it were made out of thin but quality plastic, and various scratches and scrapes covered its grey surface. A voice in the back of your mind whispered that it looked like the goth version of Jim Carrey from _The Mask_ , and you had to fight down a manic giggle as your eyes followed the bottom edge of it, which ran along his jawline, below his ears, and then, presumably, around the back of his head right below his hairline.

The front of the mask was what threw you off the most, though. Instead of having any features carved into it to simulate where a mouth or nose should be, there was only a T-shaped panel of what looked to be black glass. Or was it tinted clear plastic? You felt yourself lean forward, unconsciously squinting to see if you could make out any features beneath it.

You heard someone close by clear their throat, and heat flooded your cheeks as you suddenly realized that you’d been standing there for God-knows how long, just staring at one of the most powerful men in the city. No, staring at his _mask_.

“I-I,” you stammered, looking down at the floor in horror. It was then that you saw the glass that you were still holding, and you sucked in a breath before looking up again.

“Sorry about that, sir,” you apologized, clearing your throat. You leaned forward, setting the drink down in the center of the table. “Quill mentioned that you liked old-fashioneds, so I took the liberty of-“

You cut yourself off, eyes widening as you realized your second mistake. You looked down at the drink and then up to the Boss’s mask, right at where his mouth _would_ be if he weren’t wearing something that covered it completely. Therefore making it impossible to drink what you’d just offered him.

The horror from just a moment ago paled in comparison to what you felt now as you watched him slowly reach forward, the leather of his black gloves squeaking as he picked up the drink you’d brought for him. His head tilted to the side as he examined it, twisting the glass around between his fingers before setting it down again.

“Lemon _and_ orange, huh?”

You jumped when you heard the voice that came from inside the mask; it was clearer than you’d expected it to sound, but it also had a filtered edge to it. Your guess what that there was some sort of microphone-like device inside of it that projected his voice so it wouldn’t be muffled while he spoke.

“U-um, yes sir,” you nodded, lacing your fingers together and resisting the nervous urge to wring your hands. “That’s how my father taught me how to make them. It adds more of a refreshing aftertaste. Or so I’ve found.”

He let out a short hum, pushing the glass towards the woman seated beside him.

“Was her father right?”

You saw her eyebrows jump up under her mask, but without hesitation she did as instructed, taking a sip of the amber cocktail. Without realizing it, you held your breath as she swallowed, running her tongue along the front of her teeth for a moment as she studied the aftertaste.

“It’s good,” she decided after a moment. “Actually, hold on. That’s _really_ good. Damn. Don’t tell Quill, but I like yours even better than his.”

Relief surged through you, and a smile came to your lips as you let the air rush out of your lungs.

“I promise not to tell him; thank you very much, ma’am,” you nodded, jolting when she let out a loud bark of laughter.

“ _Ma’am?_ Pfft.” She turned to the Boss, nudging her shoulder against his as she drained the rest of her drink in one gulp. “Hear that, Mando? She called me ma’am.”

“A decision I’m sure she won’t make again,” he remarked dryly, not even turning towards her as she placed the empty glass at the edge of the table.

“Well. Either way, if you can do that with a drink I don’t even usually like, I’d love to see what you can do with a long island,” the woman grinned. “Think you can do that for me?”

“I actually just made one a few minutes ago,” you informed her; under normal circumstances, you would have felt offended by her question, but something in her smile told you that she didn’t mean it seriously. “What can I get for the rest of you guys?”

From there, you tried your best to recover gracefully from your little bout of foot-in-mouth syndrome. Pulling your small notebook out of the hidden pocket in your dress, you wrote down the rest of their drink orders, noticing that two of the men asked for old-fashioneds. From there, the last of the Boss’s party ordered a whiskey sour, and when you’d turned to ask if he’d like anything as well, he’d simply shaken his head no.

After letting them know you’d be back in just a few minutes, you turned and all but fled to the bar, hands balled up into fists as you approached Quill from behind.

“Why would you tell me,” you demanded, “that he requested me because he wanted to try one of my old-fashioneds if he can’t even drink with that mask on?! Why did you just _let_ me bring that drink over, like an enormous _buffoon_ -“

The older bartender turned around to face you, and you took a step backwards when you saw the wide grin stretched across his face. His shoulders were shaking with barely-controlled laughter, and you watched, stunned, as he fought to gain control over his expression again.

“ _You_ were the one who assumed that he wanted to try your drink,” he corrected you, busying himself with salting the rim of a margherita glass. “I never said anything like that, just that he enjoyed them.”

You sputtered in disbelief, throwing your hands up in exasperation before starting on your drink orders.

“So it was just some kind of hazing thing, then, was it?” you asked, not able to deny that you felt a twinge of fondness stir in you after seeing his typical stoic demeanor slip.

Quill snorted, cutting his eyes over to you as you worked side by side with him.

“You think I’d bother with that sorta thing?” You turned to see him watching you with amusement still glittering in his eyes. “Just needed some entertainment to get through the rest of this shift.”

A smile tugged at your lips, and you shook your head with a chuckle before returning to the whiskey sour starting to take shape in front of you.

“Well, laugh it up, cuz I’ll have you know I looked like a complete _idiot_ in front of him.”

“I promise you he’s used to that, kid. Don’t worry about it; as long as you get your work done, he won’t pay you a second glance.”

Feeling mildly comforted by his words, you started on the woman’s drink, eyes darting up towards his table. Now that you knew where it was, you could just barely make out the flash of his shiny helmet through the smoke that had settled around the room. Goosebumps ran up and down your arms as, once again, you felt as if you were being watched, and you hastily turned your attention back to drink making.

When all four of them were assembled, you placed them on a tray before stepping out onto the floor once more. You were hyper-aware of the drinks as you balanced them while you walked, and you kept your eyes fixed on only your tray and the ground in front of you. You were _not_ going to spill any of them; you’d already made enough of a fool of yourself, and you were determined not to add a third strike to your record with the Boss.

And, so, you didn’t catch the way his mask had followed your every movement as you crossed towards his table, nor did you notice the knowing smirk the woman beside him was wearing as she glanced between the two of you. You were blissfully unaware of any undue attention to yourself as you passed out each of the drinks respectively before tucking your tray under your arm and turning to the table with a smile.

“Can I get anything else for you guys?” You kept your tone light and friendly, even though you were mentally _begging_ them to not need anything else.

“Just send Quill over; tell him I need to speak with him,” the Boss said. “Cover the bar for him until he gets back.”

“Yes, sir,” you hurriedly assured him.

Biting your lip, you hurried back to the bar and relayed the message to Quill, who just rolled his eyes and set down the glass he’d been polishing.

“Why he can’t walk over on his own two legs is beyond me,” you heard him grumble under his breath.

From there, the rest of your shift went by pretty normally; you made drinks and polished glasses until Quill came back to the bar a few minutes later, once more only answering you with grunts and noncommittal shrugs. He’d waved you off after you’d asked what he wanted, telling you to return to your section but to keep your eyes on the Boss’s table in case they needed anything.

Which they hadn’t. After returning to take their glasses, they’d declined your offer to get them any refills, and when you went to check on them ten minutes after that, they were gone. From there, you only had an hour left until your shift ended at its usual time – 3:30 am. You could have hugged the girl from the morning shift who came to relieve you – as it was, you’d thanked her so profusely for taking over your section that she’d looked worried for you.

“Um… Have a rough night?” she’d asked, eyebrows pinching together under her mask.

“You have no idea,” you sighed, heading towards the back room. “See you around!”

But your walk to the back came to an abrupt halt when Quill called you over, having to shout your name twice before you heard him over the music. Frowning, you walked over to him, leaning against the bar.

“What’s up?”

“Boss wants you to bring an old fashioned to his office,” he grunted, wiping his hands off on a towel. “Something about not getting to try the last one you made.”

You felt the color drain from your face, and you gulped, nodding quickly before making your way around to the other side of the bar.

“Um… Well, I was just about to go home; it was the end of my shift five minutes ago. Could I ask someone else to bring it to him?”

“Boss asked for you specifically,” he shrugged. “It’s on you if you wanna go against his request.”

Well. Shit. You’d made mistakes in your time, but you couldn’t see yourself ever being dumb enough to deny the kingpin of, arguably, the most powerful gang in Brooklyn.

“I…see. Um. Where exactly is his office?”

“Smart choice.”

After making your thousandth old fashioned of the evening, Quill gave you instructions to the office, and though you were still a bit lost on what to do at the end of the third hallway he mentioned, you had a pretty good idea as to where it was located. And so you set out, holding the drink in a white-knuckled fist as you made your way through the twists and turns of the old building.

A few minutes of wandering later found you standing in front of a door made out of solid, dark wood, and a bronze plaque on its surface read _Management – Please knock_.

“Well,” you whispered under your breath, “here goes nothing.”

You raised your hand and rapped your knuckles against the door, trying to stamp down the butterflies in your gut as you waited for a response. Several seconds passed by, and you bit your lip as you looked around the hallway you were in; the door to the Boss’s office was the only one on this short hallway, but someone had taken the time to put a potted plant next to the door. You smiled, reaching out with one of your fingers to brush against one of its leaves, and it was in that moment that the door rushed open.

You snatched your hand back, as if the plant had burned you, and looked up to see the Boss standing on its other side. After swallowing thickly, you plastered a smile on your face and straightened your posture.

“Hello, sir,” you greeted, holding out his drink. “I brought that old fashioned for you.”

Without a word, the masked man turned on his heel and walked back into the room, gesturing for you to follow him inside.

“Close the door on the way in.”

You paused, heart pounding as you took a step into his office; the two of you were the only ones there. Glancing behind you to the door, your eyes lingered for a second on its handle, wondering what the smartest thing to do here was. If you said no, then he could do so much worse than just fire you. But if you did as he said, well… Anything could happen to you behind that closed door, and how likely was it that the loud club outside would be able to hear you scream?

“Jesus Christ, I’m not gonna shoot you.”

You jumped so hard that you almost spilled his drink, but hearing his voice spurred you to quickly grab the handle and shut the door without another moment’s thought. You turned back to face him the same moment it slammed shut with a bang, and you winced at how loud of a sound it made.

Smooth.

“S-sorry, sir,” you stuttered, hesitantly walking towards him. You held out the glass, looking up at where you hoped his eyes were beneath his helmet. “I hope it lives up to the hype. The drink, that is.”

His shoulders twitched upwards with a short huff of laughter before taking the glass from your hand, the tips of his gloved fingers brushing against yours. You felt heat rise in your cheeks as your eyes fell from his mask, taking in for the first time what he was wearing.

In the low light of the club, you’d thought his suit was black, but now you could see that it was actually a dark forest green instead. The button-down shirt beneath it was white, and the top two buttons of it were undone, showing off a patch of tan skin just below his collarbone. For some second, your eyes lingered on it, inexplicably fascinated by the only bit of skin visible on the man in front of you.

Directly behind the Boss was a large desk cluttered with notebooks, folders, and stacks of various papers and envelopes, and you watched as your employer cleared off a small space to set his glass down on. You were finally able to break out of your bizarre thoughts about his clavicle once he turned back to face you, and you silently hoped that he hadn’t caught you staring at him _again_.

“Turn around.”

You blinked once, and then twice, before speaking.

“I, um… I don’t understand, sir-“

“Turn around,” he repeated, twirling his finger in the air. “Face the other way.”

Not fully understanding the purpose of such an order, you bit your lip, reminding yourself that he’d told you earlier that he _wasn’t_ going to shoot you. Slowly, you obeyed him, lacing your fingers together and squeezing them tightly. You were now looking right at the door you’d walked in from, the one you were so tempted to walk through right now.

For a moment, the room was quiet save for the sound of your breathing, and you nearly shrieked when you heard his voice from what had to be just inches behind you.

“Don’t look back,” he commanded. “If you know what’s good for you.”

Letting out a shaky breath, you nodded, noticing a trembling strand of hair out of the corner of your eyes. In fact, your entire body was trembling ever so slightly, and you took a deep breath to try and calm the frantic beating of your heart.

Needing to ground yourself, you looked around at your surroundings, focusing on them instead of what your boss could possibly have in store for you. The walls and floors were a sandy concrete, just like the rest of the club, but there were various personal touches dotted around the space that your eyes lingered on. On either side of the door, there were huge bookcases filled with, yes, books, but also binders and folders and trinkets you wouldn’t have thought a mobster would keep in his office. Things like the small, carved figurine of a horse he had resting next to a copy of Webster’s Dictionary, or the small vase of roses he had balanced on top of a pile of magazines.

After looking over the bookshelves, your eyes scanned the furniture dotted around the room. To your left, there was a black leather couch on top of what had to be a genuine Persian rug. To your right, facing the couch, a loveseat was shoved up against the wall, and hanging above it was a huge mirror in a gilded, ornate frame. As you turned to look at yourself in it, you realized that you could catch a bit of his reflection as well, and you startled when you saw that his hands were on the back of his mask, unsnapping a clasp that held it in place. With a silent gasp, you turned to face forward again, eyes wide.

You held your breath when you heard him pick the glass up again, and it suddenly made sense why he’d asked you to turn around – he just wanted to try the drink without you seeing his face. Your shoulders slumped with relief; you didn’t care if he hated how it tasted. You were just thrilled that he hadn’t brought you back to punish you for staring at him earlier.

There was a long pause as he drank it, and you had to stop yourself from shifting your weight or appearing too restless as you waited for his verdict.

“…Cara was right,” you finally heard, and you gasped at the sound of his pure, unfiltered voice. “Your old-fashioneds _are_ better than Quill’s.”

“Thank you, sir,” you breathed, still recovering from the shock at how rich, how _deep_ , his voice was. “I promise not to tell him.”

“Oh, he already knows,” he assured you. “He told me himself after you got hired.”

Your eyebrows shot up, and you couldn’t fight back a quiet chuckle.

“Quill’s just full of surprises tonight,” you mused.

“Hm. I saw him laughing at you earlier at the bar,” your boss went on, and you heard him pause before something shifted and clicked behind you. “You can turn around again.”

His voice was, once again, the same processed, slightly staticky one you’d heard before, and as you turned around, there was a pang of disappointment in your chest when you saw the mask staring back at you once again.

“People usually have to work here for at least a year before they see him so much as smile,” he went on, turning the glass between his hands as the ice inside clinked together. “And here you are, not even a week in.”

“Well… it’s probably just because I’ve been helping him out behind the bar,” you explained. “I don’t think any of the other girls mix their own-“

“No, it’s not that,” he interrupted, shaking his head. “He has other bartenders to help him with that, and he hates them just as much as he hates the rest of the workers here. But not you.”

You didn’t know what to say, and so you said nothing, wracking your brain for anything – a thank you, an apology, a party trick – _anything_ that could make the air feel less awkward than it had suddenly become. But, eventually, your boss broke the silence, though you never would have guessed what he’d been about to say.

“You’re not a server anymore,” he declared. “I want you behind the bar full-time now. You can replace, uh…” He tapped his fingers against the lip of the glass, and you saw his head tilt upwards as he thought. “…Rayanne? Rachel?”

“Rachelle?” you supplied weakly.

“I was close enough. You can replace her,” he continued. “She can be demoted to a server to take your place, and you’re promoted to bartender to take hers.”

“B-but, sir, I,” you stammered, adjusting your mask as you took a step towards him, “I can’t just _steal_ Rachelle’s job; she’s been working here for three years-“

“And Cara still hates her long islands,” he once again cut you off. “I’ll have Quill email you a new schedule.”

Your mouth was open, but no words came out as you stared at the blank slate where his face should be; this wasn’t really such a bad thing, right? You’d gotten the position honestly, and Rachelle had never been particularly nice to you, anyways.

“…Thank you, sir,” you finally said. “I… I appreciate this opportunity.”

“Mm. How much do you wanna make?”

You pressed your lips together, your nose scrunching up as you mentally did the math.

“Um… Does $13 an hour work?”

Your employer snorted, shaking his head before taking a step towards you. You froze as he reached for your wrist, being surprisingly gentle as he brought your hand up between the two of you, and as you looked up, you knew that his eyes were boring into yours, even if you couldn’t see them. You found that you couldn’t look away as he pressed his empty glass into your hands, making sure your fingers were wrapped securely around it before pushing his hands into his pockets.

“Remind me,” he exhorted, “to _never_ let you negotiate a deal for me.”

You blinked rapidly as he backed away, brain still fizzling a bit from how close he’d just been to you. The spicy scent of his cologne still lingered in your nostrils as he turned back to his desk, and it was only when he leaned against it and inclined his head towards you that your mind caught up with what he’d just said. What had been wrong with $13 an hour? Was it too low or too high? Had you just screwed yourself?

“Um…”

You watched his chest rise and fall with a sigh, but you could have sworn you heard a smile in his voice as he spoke next.

“Report to Quill tomorrow at the beginning of your shift,” he instructed. “You’re getting $15 an hour; he can tell you more about your benefits.”

Too low, then. You paused, not knowing what to say, and, he tiled his head towards the side as he waited for your response.

“…Did you just say benefits?”

This time, it was a full-blown laugh that you managed to coax out of him, and a tentative, hopeful grin spread over your lips as you watched him nod his head.

“Yes, I did,” he confirmed. “Now go home; get some rest. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“See you tomorrow, sir…”

With that, you turned around, opened the door, and floated down the hall to the break room. In fact, after grabbing your things and getting in your car, you floated the entire way home. It was only when you reached for your steering wheel that you realized you were still clutching his glass in your left hand, but you didn’t bother bringing it back; what was one missing glass out of the hundreds, if not thousands, the club already owned?

_____________________

Din sat at his desk for a while after that, half-heartedly doing the least glamorous part of his job – paperwork. Over the years, he’d done a number of horrible things to even worse people, but he still hadn’t hated any of it – the arson, the beatings, the murder – nearly as much as he hated paperwork. But tonight, he was grateful for the easy, mindless task; he wouldn’t be able to focus on much else, not with you on his mind.

The door to his office suddenly opened, but he didn’t bother glancing up to see who it was; Cara had already gone home with some pretty young thing she’d picked up at the bar, and there was only one other person who would dare come in without knocking.

“I gave her a promotion,” he said, not looking up from the check he was writing. “You’ve got yourself a new bartender. Thought you’d like not having to deal with Rachel showing up late anymore.”

“…I’ve been telling you to replace _Rachelle_ for three years,” was his only answer.

Din looked up, watching as his old friend slowly lowered himself into his favorite armchair, groaning with the strain it put on his knees; he’d always had trouble with his joints.

“…Really,” he finally hummed, turning back to the check and scrawling his signature (which was just a wiggly line that resembled more of a curly fry than it did an actual name, but that only helped him in his efforts to remain nameless) across the bottom right corner of it. “Didn’t realize it’d been that long.”

“Because you blew me off and told me to quit complaining anytime I mentioned it,” he fired back. “Why now, all of a sudden? Why _her_?”

“Look, do you _want_ me to keep Rachel?”

Quill opened his mouth to speak, but he cut him off before he could, already knowing what he would say.

“Ra _chelle_ – whatever her fucking name is,” he grumbled. “You get my point.”

“It still doesn’t answer my question.”

Something in the older man’s tone made Din pause, slowly setting his pen down before turning to Quill once again.

“What’s it to you?” he countered. “You got something against working with the new girl?”

“No,” the bartender sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “And you know it. Just…remember what happened the last time you took a special interest-“

“Out.”

His friend sighed, standing up with a grunt and taking a step towards him.

“Now, Din, don’t get me wrong-“

“I said…”

He stood from his desk, pressing his palms flat against its surface and leaning towards the older man.

“Out.”

Quill bowed his head, the wrinkles on his face deepening as he frowned, but he didn’t feel anything but contempt as he nodded and turned towards the door. Slowly, Din lowered himself down into his chair once more, but his muscles tensed when he saw his old friend pause on the way out.

“I’m just as much worried for you as I am for her, you know,” he murmured. “It would kill me to see you go through… _that_ again.”

The old man shook his head, looking back at him over his shoulder.

“It would _kill_ me,” he whispered.

With that, he stepped out and shut the door behind him, leaving Din with nothing but bad memories and the taste of bourbon and lemon peel lingering on his tongue.


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys! Sorry for the delay in updating! This chapter is a bit shorter than the first one, but the reader gets more one-on-one time with our favorite masked mafioso! :)

Your first week as a bartender passed in a blur of shouted orders and masked faces, but by the end of it you’d comfortably settled into a rhythm. You would show up, take your forty-five minute break at 1 am, and then work until 3:30. The music and the smoke had become normal for you, and your feet had stopped aching after your fifth day on the job despite the ungodly heels you still had to wear. All in all, you were content in your new routine; no amount of spilled drinks or sticky countertops could get your spirits down, especially not with the generous tips you’d started racking up.

You _were_ surprised, however, when that first week passed with no other sign of the Boss. His right-hand-woman, Cara, was there most nights, sitting in the circle booth with a near-constant smile on her face. Despite her good humor, though, there was no denying the bulge of her muscles beneath the suits she liked to wear, and her smirks held the promise of a dangerous edge that was far from skin-deep. You were careful around her, making sure to avoid any blunders that could get you on her bad side, but she seemed more than content with the quality of your drinks.

It was only after your two days off at the end of that first week in your new position that you saw the Boss sitting with her once more, and when the time came, you felt more than saw his presence. The people sitting in the scattered dining tables kept glancing over their shoulders towards his table, speaking in hushed whispers with heads bent low towards one another. Quill, too, seemed to act differently; there was a tense line to his shoulders that you hadn’t noticed there before, and you only made it twenty minutes into your shift before your curiosity got the best of you.

“What’s going on?” you finally asked him, setting aside the glass you’d been polishing. “What has everyone so on-edge?”

The older man didn’t so much as glance in your direction as he poured a glass of wine so dark that it resembled blood, but the way his lips pressed tighter together told you that he’d heard.

“…The Hutts are back on their bullshit,” he eventually groused. “The Boss just got back from teaching ‘em a lesson.”

An icy jolt worked its way down your spine; the Hutts were perhaps the only crime syndicate that could rival the Mandalorians, and the history between the two gangs was far from friendly. Even civilians had heard of the territory wars back in the 90’s, before the Boss had risen to his current status. Unlike the Mandalorians, though, the Hutts couldn’t go much longer than a few months before testing their boundaries, usually to their detriment.

“Was anybody hurt?” you asked in a small voice, eyes cutting towards the smoke separating your gaze from the Boss’s table.

“A few; more of them than us,” Quill muttered. “Do yourself a favor and don’t say anything about it; the Boss has everything under control.”

You nodded distractedly, almost missing it when a drunken patron leaned against the bar and demanded another bourbon neat. You couldn’t deny the pang of worry you’d felt for the man who’d taken such an interest in you, as illogical as you knew it to be. The memory of his kindness and of his true, unfiltered voice had stuck with you ever since your meeting with him, and where you had once only felt fear towards the mobster, there was now a dark curiosity that seemed to encase his presence in your mind.

And so, when a waitress leaned over the bar about an hour later to tell you that Cara had ordered one of your long islands, a traitorous sliver of excitement creeped up your spine as you nodded and started mixing her drink. She’d had at least one of the alcoholic concoctions for every shift you worked, always making it a point to praise you for your skills after you’d deliver it to her table.

“Still the best damn long island I’ve ever had,” she’d smirk. “And I’ve had a lot of ‘em in my time.”

Now, after carefully placing a sugared lemon wedge on the lip of the glass, you made your way to her booth, your heartrate picking up when you made out the first flash of shiny plastic through the haze in the air. You felt the Boss’s eyes on you as you stepped up to Cara, and your cheeks heated up as you smiled between them and the other man at their table.

“There she is,” Cara grinned, her canines flashing in the low light.

“Hello, Cara,” you greeted her, setting the drink down in front of her. “How are you all this evening?”

“Better now,” she chuckled.

Your eyes flickered to the Boss as he tilted his head towards you, his gloved hands resting on the table in front of him.

“How have you been enjoying the bar?” he asked, and your fingers twitched as you shifted on your feet.

“I like it a lot, sir,” was your immediate reply. “I can’t thank you enough for the promotion.”

“Cara’s already thanked me plenty,” he chuckled. You could hear his smile in every syllable, and it made your own lips twitch as you lowered your gaze to the ground in front of you.

“I’m glad to hear-“

You were cut off when something slammed into you from behind, and had you not been able to catch yourself on the edge of the table, you would have face-planted onto the raised platform it was situated on. As you stumbled forward, though, you felt your left ankle roll in its high heel, and a pained gasp escaped your lips as you felt something in it pop.

Turning your head, you saw the same drunk man who’d ordered a bourbon neat from you earlier on the ground, having evidently tripped into you as he’d been fumbling his way to his table. He was half-laying, half-sitting in a small puddle of that very same drink, now, and his eyes were fighting to stay open as he slurred mumbled apologies up at you.

“So s’rry, ma’am,” he groaned, trying and failing to stand up. “Wasn’t lookin’ where I w’s goin’…”

The man sitting with the Boss stood up, adjusting his cufflinks before promptly grabbing the man by the front of his shirt and hauling him to his feet.

“I think you’ve had a bit too much, don’t you?” he grunted, his lips curled downwards into a scowl. “Don’t you think it’d be wise to go home?”

The drunkard nodded, his eyes going glassy as the room span with the motion, and your head turned towards the Boss upon hearing him clear his throat.

“Gideon, make sure he finds his way out without assaulting any other members of my staff, please,” he ordered, and the drunkard visibly paled at the thin layer of ice in his tone.

“S-sir, I’m so sorry-“

“It’s…it’s ok,” you interrupted, not sure whether you were assuring the man who’d unwittingly pushed you or the Boss. “Honest mistake.”

Even still, Gideon kept one hand fisted the poor sap’s shirt as he all but dragged him towards the exit, and it was then that you noticed the swarm of eyes that had fallen upon you as the other patrons watched the scene unfold. Feeling distinctly like a bug under a microscope, you moved to straighten up, only to slump over and grip the table as you tried to put weight on your twisted ankle.

“Shit,“ you hissed from behind clenched teeth, glancing down to see that your foot was already starting to swell.

“Are you hurt?”

Upon hearing the worry in your employer’s tone, you glanced up to see him leaning towards you on his elbows.

“…I think I might have sprained my ankle,” you admitted sheepishly.

“You mean _he_ sprained your ankle,” he corrected, starting to pull himself around to the edge of the booth. Your eyes widened as he approached you, and once again you tried to settle some of your weight onto your bad foot, though you gave up hope of walking away as searing pain shot through it once more.

“…C’mon,” he said after a beat, holding out his hand. “Let’s get you off your feet.”

You dazedly felt him maneuver your arm around his shoulders, the dark blue satin of his suit brushing against your entire left side as his woodsy cologne filled your senses. His voice was loud in your ear as he instructed you to lean against him, and you clumsily complied, hobbling on one foot as the two of you slowly began trudging towards a hallway designated for employees only.

“Quill,” he called out as you passed the bar. “Bring a bag of ice to my office.”

You turned just in time to catch the way Quill’s eyes skipped between you and the Boss; puzzlingly, there was a note of suspicion in his gaze, though you couldn’t tell which one of you it was directed towards. It was gone in a flash, though, as his tanned, weathered hands hurried to finish the drink he’d been working on before following his employer’s order.

Once you’d left behind the thumping music of the main dining room, you started recognizing the halls leading to the same office you’d stood in a week previous, and you tried your hardest to focus on anything except the man who was now deeply in your personal space.

“You don’t have to help me,” you muttered lamely, feeling a stab of sheepish guilt from pulling the Boss away from his table.

“Well, something tells me you wouldn’t be able to walk on your own right now,” he grunted. You took in the way he had to hunch his shoulders for you to be able to get your arm around him, and you felt another pang of remorse for the crick that was no doubt starting to form in his neck.

“…Thank you.”

He nodded, his mask brushing against your shoulder as he did, and you fell into another tense silence as you turned the corner to his office. After fishing a ring of keys out of his jacket pocket and unlocking the door, he once more let you use him as a crutch until you were able to sink down onto his sofa. The black leather upholstery was cool against your legs as you settled down into it, and the Boss wordlessly turned to start gathering the throw pillows resting on the armchairs across the room.

“Here,” he said, stacking them on top of one another before gesturing towards your foot. “Elevate that for a while; it’s already starting to swell.”

You did as he instructed, leaning over to unbuckle your shoe and slip it off before settling your foot onto the pillows. Your back was pressed against the armrest behind you, and you let out a quiet huff of relief as your ankle momentarily stopped throbbing.

“I’m guessing it hurts?”

He didn’t give you an opportunity to reply before turning and marching over to his desk, and you watched in the large mirror as he pulled open a drawer and produced a bottle of pills.

“Can you take acetaminophen? Or I have ibuprofen, if you’d prefer.”

“Um… I’ll take the acetaminophen,” you replied. “Thank you.”

He brought over the bottle to you, pouring two capsules into your outstretched palm.

“…I don’t have any water for you to take those with,” he commented, sounding almost apologetic. “Need me to get you some?”

“Oh, no,” you assured him, popping the pills into your mouth and swallowing to prove your point. “But thank you.”

A small laugh crackled through his modulator as he went to place the painkillers back into his desk.

“You don’t need to keep thanking me,” he remarked. “I’m supposed to take care of my employees.”

He began to say something else, but it was then that Quill opened the door of the office with a small bag of ice in one hand and a rolled up length of bandage in the other.

“So, I’m guessing the last bourbon was one too many for him, huh?” he asked you, kneeling down beside your foot and setting the ice down onto it.

You jolted at the sudden cold temperature, your teeth clenching at the spark of pain it sent radiating upwards from your swollen flesh.

“I-I guess so,” you stammered, watching as he started to unravel the bandage.

“Hm.”

Without warning, the older man started poking gently at your ankle, keeping the ice pressed to it as he instructed you to try wiggling your toes. You complied despite the discomfort the movement caused, but you audibly yelped when he tried to guide you to move your foot.

“…Looks like a sprain,” he finally declared, though you would have been able to tell him that several minutes ago. “I’m gonna wrap it for you; make sure you stay off of it for the next few days or so.”

“But I have to-“

Your words dissolved into a pained groan when he started to wrap it, and you saw the Boss’s shoulders flinch at the sound.

“Don’t _manhandle_ her, Quill,” he sighed brusquely, but the bartender didn’t so much as glance in his direction.

“She’ll be alright,” he assured him, looking up at you from behind his bushy eyebrows. “You’re tougher than you look, right?”

Despite the discomfort (and, yes, frustration that he wasn’t being gentler with your wound), you gave him a small smile and nodded.

“’Tis but a flesh wound,” you mumbled under your breath.

A soft laugh sounded from behind you, and you turned to watch your boss in the mirror.

“Monty Python, huh?”

“The one and only,” you confirmed.

When the bandage was secured tightly, Quill once more set the ice over your ankle before hauling himself to his feet with a grunt.

“Take the next few days off, kid,” he commanded you, holding up a hand to stop you before you could protest. “I think there might be some crutches in a supply closet somewhere; wait here ‘til I get back.”

With that, he turned on his heel and left, leaving you alone with the Boss once more. The heels of his shiny black shoes clicked against the concrete as he stalked over to one of the armchairs, and he lowered himself down into it with a sigh.

“Quill is an acquired taste,” he stated, drumming his fingers across one of the armrests. “But he means well.”

“I know,” you assured him. “He’s been nothing but kind to me since I started.”

The masked man tiled his head to the side, and you could imagine him arching an eyebrow at you from behind the T-shaped plane of black plastic.

“…Well, maybe a little grumpy, but still kind.”

“Grumpy,” he nodded. “An apt description.”

Awkward silence threatened to fill the space between you, and your mind raced as it searched for something to say.

You finally settled on, “Do you like owning this club?”, and he took a second to consider his answer.

“…It’s among the more benign parts of my job, I guess,” he replied after a moment. “But I don’t have much to do with running it. Quill is more of the owner than I am, even if my name is on the deed. Do you like working here?”

It was a loaded question, but the answer to it came easily enough.

“I do,” you answered him. “It took some getting used to, but it’s far from being the worst job I’ve ever had.”

“Is it the first job of yours that involves the mafia?”

Your eyes widened at his blunt line of questioning, and you gulped.

“I don’t know if mixing drinks and waiting tables counts as involvement with the mob,” you said carefully.

“Sure it does,” he insisted. “I’m sure you see at least a dozen arrestable offenses every day you come in to work.”

Your mind flashed to the lines of white powder and bags of pot you’d seen openly sprawled out on the tables of the various booths during your time as a waitress, and most of the people in the building, staff or otherwise, had a gun or some other weapon not-so-hidden somewhere on their person.

“…It doesn’t bother me as much as it did at first,” you said eventually. “And even then, it didn’t ‘bother’ so much as ‘surprise’.”

“Hm. And did you know what you were getting into when you took the job?”

You took in a shaky breath.

“I did. Did you, when you first started?”

In his initial moment of silence, you feared that the question had been too personal, but his shoulders hadn’t tensed in anger, nor had his body language shifted from the relaxed state it was in.

“…I did,” he echoed after a moment. “I started when I was young.”

“…I’m sorry,” you breathed. “That was a…pretty personal thing to ask-“

“It’s fine,” he waved you off, crossing one of his ankles over his knee. “It’s not like I hadn’t asked you personal questions first.”

The door opened again just a few moments after that, and Quill came bustling in with a pair of metal crutches tucked under his arm.

“Finally found the damn things,” he grunted. “Had to clean some blood offa them, but they should work just fine.”

You blinked slowly, trying to search for a sign on his face that he was joking, but there was none to be seen as he leaned them against the couch.

“…Thanks.”

“’Welcome,” he nodded. “You need help gettin’ to your car?”

“I… I don’t have a car,” you said, feeling your heart start to sink in realization. “I always take the subway.”

“Aw, hell,” the old man sighed, scrubbing a hand down his face. “Well, I guess I can-“

“Go back and tend to the bar,” the Boss suddenly interrupted. “I can drive her in mine.”

At that, Quill finally turned to level a look at the masked man that showed the same suspicion you’d seen in his eyes earlier, and for the next few seconds, the men stared each other down, communicating in a silent language only discernable to themselves.

“…It’s Saturday night, Quill,” your employer eventually reasoned. “They need your help, especially when we’re already down one bartender.” He gestured to your bad foot, and you felt a prick of guilt seep into you as you thought about how busy the staff would be without your help.

“…Fine,” the older man huffed before turning and stalking towards the door once again as he grumbled under his breath. “Nobody goddamn listens to me anymore…”

After the door was closed, the Boss’s shoulders slumped a bit from where they’d been tensed during the stand-off, and you didn’t get the chance to ask any questions before he pulled himself to his feet.

“Are you sure it won’t be a problem?” you asked him. “I know you’re probably busy-“

“Like I said, Quill runs this place more than I do. Hell, Cara probably does, too.”

He held out one of his hands, its black leather glove shining, and you hesitated before taking it, letting him help you up onto your good foot. It was a precarious balancing act on your thin heel, and the Boss rushed to hand you the crutches before you could teeter backwards onto the sofa. Bending down, he picked up your discarded heel and buckled its strap around one of your crutches, leaving it to hang there as you tentatively used them to swing yourself forward.

The plastic dug into your underarms with every step, but you started to get the hang of them as your boss slowly started guiding you through the building, down unfamiliar hallways until you found yourself standing in a cold, cavernous parking garage.

“I didn’t even know this was here,” you commented, hearing your voice bounce across the high ceilings of the space.

“Technically, it’s supposed to be for the warehouse next door,” he informed you, leading you towards a mammoth-like black Cadillac parked close by. “But for some reason, they’ve always been too intimidated to tell me not to park here.”

You snorted, following him around to the passenger side of the vehicle.

“You? Intimidating? I can’t imagine.”

His shoulders shook softly with his laughter, and you leaned against the car as he stowed your crutches in the backseat. After he opened the passenger door for you, you wondered for a moment how you were going to hoist yourself into the tall front seat, but your worries fizzled away when he gestured for you to come closer to him.

“I’m gonna help you up; is that ok?”

He waited until you nodded before setting his hands on your hips and quickly pulling you upwards, and before you knew it you were comfortably nestled against the soft leather interior. You bit your lip as your cheeks, once again, heated up from how close he’d been, and you couldn’t help but marvel at the effortless strength he’d shown as he picked you up without so much as a grunt from the effort.

The driver’s door opened, but the Boss paused before getting in.

“I forgot to ask if you needed to get anything from your locker,” he spoke, and your eyes widened as you realized that you hadn’t even thought about it, either.

“Shit, I forgot, too,” you groaned, dreading having to take another trip back inside to retrieve your purse.

“It’s ok,” he assured you. “Just, uh…give me your combination and I’ll go get whatever you need. If you’re ok with that.”

“Are you sure you don’t-“

“I don’t mind at all. Now, which locker should I be looking for?”

You described which one was yours, giving him your combination before he nodded and fished out the same key ring as before.

“I’ll be right back,” he informed you. “Go ahead and crank the car, if you want. It gets a little chilly in here at night.”

After handing you the keys, he closed the car door and headed back inside, leaving you to trail your eyes up and down the lean length of his body before he disappeared from sight. His broad shoulders tapered down into a trim waist, and there was no denying that he had exquisite taste in suits as the dark blue material of his outfit hugged his figure; not for the first time, you wondered if the face beneath his mask was just as attractive as the rest of him.

“Get ahold of yourself,” you muttered, shaking your head before jamming the key into the ignition. “None of _those_ thoughts now, thank you very much.”

As soon as the engine turned over, you jolted as loud music suddenly started pouring through the speakers. Frantically turning down the volume, you let out a huff of laughter, shaking your head to dispel your startled shock. The familiar tune of _Africa_ by Toto was playing from a CD he’d apparently been listening to the last time he was in the car, and you smiled, both at his choice in music and the fact that he still used _CD’s_.

The song was almost over by the time he rejoined you, your old, worn purse clutched in one hand as he climbed into the driver’s seat.

“Oh, I forgot I’d left the radio on; sorry about that,” he apologized, depositing your bag into your lap.

“No, it’s fine,” you assured him. “I happen to love this song.”

He hummed, throwing the car (though, really, it felt more like a tank) into reverse before accelerating out of the parking lot.

“Good taste,” he praised. “But feel free to play something else if you want.”

Letting your curiosity get the best of you, you flicked through the CD, watching as several classics from the 80’s showed up on the screen’s display.

“Never would’ve pegged you as an 80’s fan,” you chuckled.

“Why? Cuz of the music we play in the club?”

You nodded, eventually settling on Jump by Van Halen, making sure to turn the sound down so you could talk to one another without having to shout over it.

“That was Cara’s idea,” he continued. “She’s the one who made the playlist that we-“

He cut himself off, breaking at the first red light you came to before turning to you slowly.

“…I’ve just realized that I have no idea where you live,” he admitted sheepishly, and you laughed as you, too, recognized that he’d begun driving without first asking you for directions.

“It’s ok,” you assured him. “Luckily, you’re already heading in the right direction. I live in Mott Haven, off East 138th.”

A high-pitched sound came from behind his mask, and it took you a second to realize that he’d just whistled.

“That’s a bit of a ways from here,” he commented, but you couldn’t feel guilty in time before he added, “Not that I mind, just… It must be tough to commute on the subway every night from here to there.”

You shrugged, watching the lights of the city whiz by past you after the light turned green.

“You get used to it after a while,” you noted. “And I kind of like walking through the city at night. It’s peaceful, in its own way.”

“And dangerous in others.”

You smirked, fishing through your purse until your fingers closed around your taser, lifting it up so your boss could see.

“That’s why I keep this guy around,” you smiled, watching as he turned his head towards you so he could see what you were brandishing.

“Good idea,” he nodded, approval evident in his voice. An uncertainty seemed to come over him, though, as he turned back to the road, restlessly tapping his fingers against the steering wheel.

“Is, uh…he the _only_ guy you keep around?” he finally asked, and it took your brain a short second to load the meaning of his question. Your eyes widened, and you cleared your throat before answering.

“Not for lack of trying, but yeah,” you conceded. “Well, him and my cat.”

The Boss hummed, turning his blinker on with deft fingers as he navigated from one lane to the next.

“A cat, huh? What’s his name?”

You smiled, thinking about the little mongrel waiting for you at home.

“Gato,” you answered, hearing him laugh softly in response.

“Your cat’s name is Cat?”

“Well, ‘cat’ in Spanish,” you grinned. “He was already named that when I got him; the family who used to live down the hall from me had to get rid of him, and their daughter guilt-tripped me into taking him in. I hadn’t even wanted a cat in the first place, but…”

“Here you are.”

“Here I am,” you agreed. “Do you speak Spanish?”

There was wry humor in his voice when he replied.

“Enough to know what ‘gato’ means.”

From there, you navigated him to your neighborhood until, eventually, he pulled up to your large, rent-controlled apartment building.

“Well, this is me,” you sighed, opening your door before slinging your purse over your shoulder. “Thank you again for the ride; I’m sorry for any inconvenience I caused.”

“Stop apologizing,” he chided you gently. Hurriedly, he got out and walked over to your side of the car, pulling your crutches out of the backseat before helping you down onto the sidewalk, his hands once again finding your hips. “I volunteered, remember? Couldn’t just abandon Cara’s favorite bartender.”

You smiled, tilting your head up to look at where you approximated his eyes were behind the mask.

“Still. I really appreciate it, Boss,” you intoned. “Thank you.”

He nodded, turning to look between you and your building.

“You, uh…need any help getting to your apartment?”

You shook your head.

“Nah, that’s ok,” you promised. “I can just ride the elevator up.”

With one last smile, you turned and began hobbling into your building.

“Have a good night, Boss,” you called over your shoulder.

You heard a quiet, “you, too,” just before the front door closed behind you, leaving your employer standing outside, staring through the glass doors to the lobby even after you left his line of sight.

“…Remember what Quill said,” he eventually muttered to himself, turning back to climb into his car. “Remember what happened last time.”

Once he was in the driver’s seat, hands gripping the steering wheel so hard that the leather squeaked against his gloves, he bowed his head, closing his eyes as images of _them_ started floating through his mind.

“Remember what happened last time, Din.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so so much for reading! Comments always make my day, if you'd like to tell me what you thought! Any theories on what's going to happen next?

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! If you'd like, follow me on tumblr @nikki-writes-stuff. Also, comments are always super appreciative! Hearing from you guys makes my day. :)


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